My hand twitched hard.
Mila was blonde.
The realization didn’t explode into rage. No heat. No roar in my blood. Just a sick, hollow plunge in my chest—like my heart had been carved out and the cavity left gaping.
For a second, the entire room narrowed to a ringing silence.
I kept going.
“She cried too much. Got rid of her.”
Something hot crawled up my throat.
I swallowed it.
The deeper I went, the more I saw. Children listed like fucking inventory. Routes. Buyers. Prices.
Pakhan kept talking, pouring himself another drink like this was just another Tuesday afternoon.
“Started small,” he said. “No one notices a few shipments here and there.”
Ice clinked in his glass.
“Then you scale. That’s where the money is.”
He smiled.
Proud. Like the sick fuck had invented something brilliant. His little secret empire, built right under the old Pakhan’s nose.
“And now?” He gave a low, satisfied chuckle, swirling the glass lazily. “Now the world does half the work for you. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make someone disappear when everyone’s already too busy surviving.”
I didn’t look up.
If I did, I’d put a bullet between his eyes right then and there.
That was how he climbed—money first, then influence, then the throne. He’d been orchestrating it long before he ever claimed the title. Long enough to take Mila. Decades of children turned into inventory, and the bastard still sleeping soundly at night. If karma exists, it’s clearly on vacation.
I started watching the men around me. If I was going to take down this entire operation, I needed allies. Not many. Just a few I could trust not to stab me the second things got bloody.
I hated talking to people. Hated pretending. I’d never wanted to be a leader.
But I didn’t have a choice. When the day came—when I’d finally burn this place to the ground—I needed shooters beside me who wouldn’t flinch.
So I watched. I listened.
Some were just in it for the money. Ruthless, but not lost.
Others? Already gone.
The ones who knew about the trafficking—the ones who helped run it—they were monsters. The way they talked about kids made me want to gut them on the spot. Calling them “units,” “inventory,” or “fresh meat.”
They laughed. Joked. One even said, “Only thing worse than a crying kid is a dead one, ’cause then you can’t sell it.”
I stared at him for ten seconds straight, wondering if I should kill him right there.
And here I thought I was the monster.
But I wasn’t. Not compared to them.
